The Corner Shop of Whispers

by Viggiano, Debbie

  I’d nodded. ‘But each time it happened, a little piece of my love for him died.’ I’d given Luca a grim look. ‘Unfortunately, there comes a point when there is no love left.’

  ‘Has that point now been reached?’

  I’d nodded my head slowly. ‘Most definitely. A little while ago I received a letter. It was from his latest mistress. I will spare her blushes, but she’s well known in this village.’

  ‘Ah,’ Luca had said. ‘That’s very honourable of you. So many women would be plotting a humiliating revenge.’

  ‘I told you. I’m not like that,’ I’d sighed. ‘I’ve lost count how many affairs Marcus has had. But when that letter arrived, the little bit of affection I had left for Marcus had been hanging by a thread. By the time I’d finished reading its contents, I couldn’t even cry. Marcus had used up the last of my love.’

  ‘But you’re crying now, Florrie. Your face is still wet with tears. Are you sure you don’t love your husband?’

  ‘Oh, quite sure,’ I’d said emphatically as two more fat tears trickled down the sides of my nose.

  ‘So why are you crying again?’ he’d asked gently.

  ‘I’m crying for the memories your photograph evoked. For being lulled into living a lie with my cheating husband. I should have left him a long time ago.’

  ‘But you didn’t.’

  ‘There never seemed to be the right moment. And then one of my parents wasn’t well and, at the time, I didn’t want them worrying about me.’

  ‘That sounds like an excuse,’ Luca had said.

  ‘You’re right,’ I’d agreed. ‘Maybe there is also an element of cowardice. I need to psyche myself up to leave. Be brave.’ I’d blown my nose again.

  Luca had nodded, his eyes full of sympathy. ‘Sometimes it’s good to prepare yourself for a major life change. Think it through properly. And be very, very brave.’

  And then Luca had put one arm around my shoulders and, with the other, drawn me towards him. I’d begun to sob again. Not for the lost love over Marcus, but for a marriage that had started as a dream, then hit the rocks and shattered. Before I’d known what was happening, Luca had cupped my face in the palms of his hands and, using the balls of his thumbs, wiped away my tears. Then slowly, oh so very slowly, he’d lowered his mouth to mine. And so had begun the start of something special that nobody knew anything about. I’d thought.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Afterwards, as I’d lain in Luca’s bed staring up at the ceiling, a whirl of different feelings had whooshed through my brain. They’d gathered momentum, seemingly taking on a life of their own before fragmenting into a kaleidoscope of broken thoughts. One thing was clear. I was a hypocrite. A cheat. An adulteress. I was no better than my Casanova husband. I’d wondered if Marcus had been at home, maybe nursing his own cup of cold tea whilst staring at the kitchen wall wondering exactly how long it took his wife to discuss a painting commission with a restaurateur? Or whether he’d thought, “Yippee! I can nip out and see Annabelle Farquhar-Jones!” Or Christine…or Janey… or Carrie? So many women. So many names. Little had I known that my husband had been outside Serafino’s waiting for his latest amour and already seen the romantic drama unfolding from the lit window over the restaurant.

  Next to me Luca had stirred. We’d been drifting in and out of sleep for half an hour or so, eyes closed, arms wrapped around each other. I’d looked up at Luca’s face. So handsome and kind, even in repose. He’d opened his eyes and, slowly, smiled at me. The smile had reached his eyes, crinkling the skin at the corners.

  ‘Florrie, cara. I can’t tell you how happy I am seeing you next to me.’

  I’d smiled back but hadn’t returned any endearments. I’d regarded what we’d done as a one-off. The guy was hot. He probably had women falling over themselves to get into his bed all the time. Indeed, he might have had another woman in his bed just last night. And maybe another woman was lined up, ready, willing and available to take the place I’d then been occupying. This was what years of being married to a serial adulterer did to you. It left you suspicious of everything and trusting no one.

  ‘Florrie?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, I’m…very okay,’ I’d nodded. ‘And grateful.’

  An expression of puzzlement had crossed Luca’s face.

  ‘For listening to me burbling on earlier,’ I’d explained, ‘and then being so kind.’

  ‘Kind?’ He’d raised his eyebrows. ‘You think I held you in my arms and took you to my bed out of kindness?’

  ‘I…well…I don’t want to presume…I mean…I’m sure you have many lady friends. And…er…that’s fine by me,’ I’d added hastily, feeling myself go a bit pink in the face. ‘After all, you’re a single man. An incredibly good-looking one at that,’ I’d pointed out, ‘so you probably have to fight the women off. But that’s fine. After all, you’re a free agent and can take as many women to bed as you like.’ I’d rattled to a stop feeling slightly foolish. Luca had looked at me in amusement.

  ‘So, I have your permission to romance and woo other women. Is that what you’re saying, Florrie?’ His mouth had twitched.

  ‘Well, it’s nothing to do with me. Your love life, I mean.’ My already pink cheeks had begun to redden and burn at inadvertently putting Luca’s love life under a microscope.

  ‘Ah, but you’re wrong,’ he’d corrected me. ‘My private life has everything to do with you.’

  It had then been my turn to be puzzled. ‘Well, that’s very nice of you wanting to be so honest, but I’d rather not know, thanks.’

  My heart had twisted with pain. The thought of Luca with another woman had hurt so much I’d found it hard to breathe.

  ‘Listen to me, Florrie.’ Luca’s voice had been gentle. ‘I am not some cheating immoral man like your husband. There is no string of other women in my life.’ I’d regarded Luca sceptically as he’d taken my hand. ‘There is a woman though.’ He’d looked deep into my eyes and I’d felt my throat constrict.

  Here it comes. The truth about another woman.

  I’d braced myself. What did it matter whether it was one woman or several? The outcome was the same. This man was seeing someone else. Luca had cleared his throat.

  ‘The woman in my life…I’m looking right at her.’

  The words had hung in the air for a moment. As they’d begun to sink into my brain, my eyes had widened.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you. It sounds corny, Florrie, but I promise you,’ he’d taken my hand and, placing his other hand over the top, pressed them against his chest. ‘You are here. In my heart. The moment I saw you lunching with your girlfriends in my restaurant, you touched my soul. I cannot explain it. And I don’t want to, for there are no adequate words to convey how, when I handed you the menu that day, you made my entire world tilt on its axis. I knew I had to find a way for you to be in my life. Learning you were an artist opened a window of opportunity. Discovering you were married was almost unbearable. However, I suspected your marriage wasn’t a bed of roses. This is a small village, cara. As you know, tongues wag. When a certain woman booked a table for two in my restaurant and openly paraded the latest man in her life, I didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce who he was. Especially when that man handed me his credit card to pay the bill. His name was plain to see.

  ‘Marcus?’ I’d asked, astonished. ‘My husband was so indiscreet as to publicly dine out with this lady?’

  That had rocked me. I’d thought Marcus had only got down to straightforward gratuitous sex. I hadn’t realised wining and dining played a part in his many infidelities. But even that discovery hadn’t hurt. My heart had remained immune.

  ‘Seeing your husband with this woman left me in no doubt about the state of your marriage. It gave me a glimmer of hope. That I might be able to get to know you better with a clear conscience. I’m not the sort of man who pursues married women, unhappy or otherwise. And before you ask whether commis
sioning you to do paintings was out of pity, I can tell you quite categorically the answer is no. But, yes, I did commission you in order to have a reason to get to know you.’ He’d leant forward and kissed the tip of my nose. ‘And besides,’ he’d added, ‘my restaurant is starting to feel a lot more ambient with your paintings adorning the walls.’

  I’d smiled, and gently cuffed him in mock outrage.

  ‘I should hope so too.’ I’d cleared my throat, suddenly serious. ‘So, who was the woman my husband was romancing?’

  Luca had paused. He’d given me a level look.

  ‘I think you already know the answer to that question, Florrie.’

  The cogs of my brain had whirred and spun as thought processes fell into place. I’d frowned, not quite sure who he was hinting at.

  ‘The woman,’ Luca had said, ‘is the same, I suspect, as the author who penned that letter to you.’

  I’d gasped. Of course. Who else but Annabelle Farquhar-Jones.

  ‘What is it about that female?’ I’d asked, frustrated. ‘Everywhere I go, whatever I’m doing, she pops up in my life.’

  ‘You are not alone, Florrie. She is very popular with the men – married or otherwise. From what I’ve heard, she pursues her prey relentlessly. But listen, cara. Forget about the likes of women like her. I want to talk about you. And how much you mean to me. I know your life is currently,’ he’d paused to find the right word, ‘complicated. You have a lot to oversee. Separation. Divorce. Taking a marital home apart and undoing all the ties, especially the emotional ones, is very difficult. But I want you to know I’m here for you. And,’ he’d raised my fingers to his lips and kissed them one by one, ‘I love you.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  When Luca had told me he loved me, I’d immediately wanted to respond with the same words. I knew I loved him too, with every fibre of my being. But the sane, sensible part of me had protested otherwise. How could I love a man I barely knew? Exploring his body between the sheets was one thing, but I’d yet to get to know the real him – his thoughts, hopes, dreams, and what made him tick. All I’d known for sure was that my brain was screaming words like “rebound” and warning me not to leap from one bad relationship to potentially another.

  ‘Luca,’ I’d said tentatively. ‘I can’t commit myself to you just yet. It’s…too early.’

  ‘I know. I don’t expect anything from you, Florrie. But I will live in hope. And I also want you to carry on painting for me. The restaurant is genuinely benefitting from your beautiful work. If you are looking at being a single lady you will need an income and more clients.’

  I was so very, very grateful for Luca’s assistance with launching my painting career. And thanks to his framing a little notice about me under each piece, I had received several enquiries. Hopefully at some point they would turn into commissions. Meanwhile there was a marriage to unravel.

  Weeks had passed. By the time I’d confronted my husband about the mystery letter, my relationship with Luca had been firmly limited to one of love but in the context of old-fashioned courtship. There was warmth, supportive friendship, very sweet words and gentle kisses, but absolutely no torrid lovemaking. I wanted to listen to my brain and refrain from that leap into uncertainty…to be one-hundred per-cent sure that going from the marital bed – albeit a very cold marital bed – to Luca’s bed, was not a hasty decision I’d later come to regret.

  And now, standing in Harriet Montgomery’s attic rooms, with the movie star openly watching a stream of emotions playing across my face, my devastation was acute. The loathsome Annabelle Farquhar-Jones had not only bedded my husband but also taken my beloved!

  Thank God I’d listened to my brain and not my heart, and insisted on keeping Luca at arm’s length and not returned to his bed. Erasing Luca’s false words of endearment was going to be challenge enough. Thank heavens I hadn’t indulged in making further bittersweet memories of our bodies coming together in what I’d fancifully thought as a soulmate connection. As it was, I had a harsh reminder of our single union. I would be carrying that reminder for the next few months until I went to hospital to give birth to our baby. That reminder would continue for the rest of my life as I raised our child alone.

  Harriet interrupted my whirling thoughts. ‘How’s the painting coming along? I’m bored now.’

  ‘Almost there,’ I murmured. ‘You can get dressed if you like. I can finish this little bit without you.’

  ‘I wish you’d said something sooner,’ Harriet grumbled, instantly shifting her voluptuous bottom from the chaise-longue. ‘Come down when you’re finished and have a cup of tea.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, genuinely surprised and grateful.

  I couldn’t imagine the likes of Harriet Montgomery offering to make tea for many people. She had a housekeeper who surely took care of that. Although right now, I could really gulp down something much stronger than tea. A large gin and tonic came to mind. Unfortunately, at the moment all alcohol was off the agenda. Tea it would have to be. I sighed with both frustration and annoyance and began wiping brushes and packing up while Harriet finished dressing.

  ‘Here,’ she said, handing me a key. ‘Lock the attic’s main door on your way out. I don’t want my precocious daughter ruining the artwork again.’

  Wordlessly I took the key. If Alison sabotaged the painting again it would have to remain that way because, as from tomorrow, I wouldn’t be around to put it right for a second time. As I moved around the makeshift studio I determined to get away from it all. I needed to absent myself from the likes of that wretched Annabelle Farquhar-Jones. There was a deep need to retreat now and privately lick my wounds, whilst attempting to come to terms with the bitter realisation that Luca was no better than Marcus. I didn’t want to be around to listen to the village gossip and wagging tongues.

  I hadn’t seen Mum and Dad for a while, and they knew nothing of my predicament. It was time to update them. I’d drive over tomorrow. First thing. Tell them everything. Before somebody else did. Just as soon as I’d had a good night’s sleep. I yawned and slowly stretched out stiff muscles. Right now I felt as though I could sleep for a hundred years.

  I was just locking up the attic when my phone signalled the arrival of a text message.

  Cara, what happened to you this evening?

  Without bothering to reply I turned the key in the main door and made my way downstairs to Harriet’s vast kitchen. It was late now, so I was surprised to see Alison still here. She was chatting to Harriet and seated at the enormous kitchen table whilst cradling a mug of something hot. When I walked into the kitchen she looked visibly shaken.

  ‘Florrie!’ she exclaimed. ‘I didn’t realise you were here.’

  ‘She’s been working on my painting,’ Harriet said, ‘and a vandalised painting at that. It would seem my young daughter is nothing more than a delinquent.’ Harriet pursed her lips together and Alison had the grace to blush. ‘I don’t know what gets into Piper. Are you having trouble with Tiffany by any chance?’

  ‘Er, yes, a little,’ Alison confessed. ‘She really isn’t performing well enough with her languages. Such a disappointment. She keeps wanting to play out in our road with Daisy’s kids. I’ve told her it’s a no. I don’t want her associating with the local school’s riff-raff.’

  My hackles instantly came up. ‘Daisy’s children are absolutely delightful,’ I protested.

  ‘If you like that sort of thing,’ Alison sniffed.

  It was at times like this that I found Ali an utter cow. She was quite happy to sit in our mutual neighbour’s untidy front room accepting tea and sympathy when she needed it, but when Alison was in the company of fake friends like Harriet she really could be quite a bitch.

  ‘Anyway, Florrie,’ Alison continued, ‘how long have you been here? I didn’t see you come in.’

  ‘Really?’ I smiled sweetly. ‘That’s strange, because I saw you.’

  Alison blanched and began to choke on her drink, while Harriet looked perple
xed at the sudden undercurrent going on. I turned to Harriet.

  ‘Thanks for the offer of tea, but actually I’m rather tired and think I’d like to go home.’

  Harriet shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’

  ‘I’ll see you out,’ said Alison jumping to her feet. ‘You stay put, Harriet,’ she fawned, ‘and enjoy your tea. You must be exhausted after hours of lying so still for Florrie.’

  I put up a hand in farewell to Harriet and headed out of the kitchen and back into the huge reception area that was Harriet’s “hallway”. As soon as we were out of earshot, Alison clamped a hand on my shoulder and spun me round to face her.

  ‘Just a minute, Florrie.’

  I looked at her, my face a picture of innocence. ‘Yes?’

  ‘What was that remark in the kitchen intended to mean?’

  ‘What remark?’ I asked, eyes wide.

  ‘You said you saw me come in. But I never saw you.’

  ‘I know you didn’t, Ali. But don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.’

  Alison stared at me, her expression inscrutable. ‘Secret? I don’t have any secrets.’

  ‘Of course you don’t,’ I replied, patting her hand. ‘I’m going away tomorrow to see my parents. For the moment I’ve had enough of this village.’ My eyes suddenly blazed. ‘And I’ve just about had enough of everyone in it too.’

  ‘W-Whatever are you talking about?’ Alison stuttered. She looked panicked.

  ‘You know perfectly well what I’m talking about,’ I glared at her. ‘I’ll see you at the May Ball. Until then, keep your paws off Harriet’s painting and make sure Piper doesn’t get into trouble.’

  And then, leaving Alison looking like she’d been slapped on both cheeks with a particularly stinky wet fish, I walked out of the front door and into the cool dark night.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I hardly slept a wink that night. Having left the marital bed and made one of the spare bedrooms my own, I’d tossed and turned, vividly dreaming that I was back in Harriet’s attic rooms. Once again I was painting, this time as if my life depended upon it. But as I’d splashed colour onto the canvas and built the oil into shape and form, my efforts had been constantly hampered by a stream of amorous couples – none of whom were married to each other.